


Reconstruction

by illuminist



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Post Bad ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 04:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminist/pseuds/illuminist
Summary: Flakes of copper and nickel resolve themselves into the wire frame of a quarter, passed from hand to hand. A quarter, dancing over Connor's knuckles. Something not related to any mission, but something human. As he stares at the constructed corpse of Lieutenant Anderson, West feels his face go wet. Perhaps it’s best that Anderson never had the chance to see Connor complete his mission, become obsolete, and head to recycling.Death, a voice in West’s head says. He was alive, ergo, you sent him to death.“I would have buried you. I would have rounded up Chen, and Fowler, and even Reed, and made them pay their respects properly. You mattered, Anderson. More than I think you ever knew.”





	Reconstruction

The house, like so many others in the city, has been abandoned. Weak streams of sunlight filter in through the window, turning some of the gray areas a warm yellow. The rest, though, remains dark and devoid of color. Spiderwebs crisscross over the kitchen fan and lamps.

West lets out a breath his body doesn’t actually need.

If a coroner had gone through the house and embalmed every strip of wallpaper, West imagines they’d have produced something like this. Brass keys lie on the counter beside a leather wallet. The moth-eaten sleeves of jacket hang over the frame of a chair. An old TV, dating back to the first revolution, sits in the living room. Part of him wants to signal it on, but the thought alone makes his thirium pump clench. One dust mote out of place and the spell breaks—the house will no longer be _his_ house, the place where so many of West’s obsessive thoughts have wandered. His reconstruction module flickers on, unbidden.

The wire frame of a man appears. 53 years old. Caucasian, not particularly fit.

Even within the confines of his own head, West chides himself for the impolite comment. One of the few things, he supposes, he shares with his older brother.

The wire-man pours himself a glass of whiskey, staring into the nothingness. Downs it in one fell swoop. (Alarming.) Pours himself another. Stares a photo frame, puts it down. Picks up a revolver.

West cringes. He dismisses the reconstruction and the wire-man fades away. He’s back in the dead air of a long-dead building, alone. Antsy, he pulls open drawers. Searches through the couch cushions. Pulls a photo album off a shelf and flips, documenting each page to memory. Though West never wants to go back into detective work again, he can’t help but admit that he has a gift for it. He “went to college” for that, after all. Though he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, he’s certain he’ll recognize it when it appears. Something in the official narrative is _wrong_.

Call it a gut instinct, ha.

Each item he finds tells him a little more about home’s inhabitants. Little details, things he once would have never considered relevant to an investigative report—keratin remnants, from the hair of a St. Bernard. Tiny, tiny flakes of copper and nickel, rubbed off a quarter. Lack of olfactory information coming from a refrigerator. Though the device shut off sometime in the intervening years, there was no food in there to go bad.

Annoyingly, deviancy comes with unexpected effects. The wire-Anderson comes back, hunched over the kitchen table. Across the room stands the unasked-for construction of 800, allegedly unawakened, allegedly loyal to its creators. Wire-800 tells wire-Anderson about the need to move on, about how doing so will help their case. Wire-Anderson orders 800 out of his home. West can still detect the faintest traces of gunpowder, used to fire a single bullet.

Something in the evidence doesn’t fit. Flakes of copper and nickel…

“I’m sorry, Hank. Connor shouldn’t have…” Shouldn’t have what? Shouldn’t have shot the Chloe at Elijah Kamski’s house? West imagines himself at the mansion, wading through snow on a day when he hadn’t even yet been built. He sees 800 with a gun in its hand, and perhaps with some wishful thinking, a flash of guilt on its face. Because West would have shot Chloe too, would have gritted his teeth and watched the second Traci end her life, would have found the key to Jericho. He’d done things of a similar character himself, fully deviated, because in the end, there was more than a job. West wanted to live, dammit, and he’d seen well enough what happened to android failures. In the early days, he’d preconstruct an elaborate recycling center and wish, fervently, that he could get drunk. He’d drink Anderson under the table.

“I would have told you that you mattered. I would have found a way to tell you that I too, was afraid of death. Because androids don’t really go to heaven, do they?” A bitter chuckle.

Flakes of copper and nickel resolve themselves into the wire frame of a quarter, passed from hand to hand. A quarter, dancing over Connor's knuckles. Something not related to any mission, but something human. As he stares at the constructed corpse of Lieutenant Anderson, West feels his face go wet. Perhaps it’s best that Anderson never had the chance to see Connor complete his mission, become obsolete, and head to recycling.

 _Death_ , a voice in West’s head says. _He was alive, ergo, you sent him to death._

“I would have buried you. I would have rounded up Chen, and Fowler, and even Reed, and made them pay their respects properly. You mattered, Anderson. More than I think you ever knew.”

He’ll pick up where Connor left off. Succeed where 800 failed. Because he’s _stronger, faster, more resilient_. Stubborn. Competitive. Loving.

On the kitchen table, there still lies an old photograph. West picks it up, puts it in his jacket pocket, and leaves.


End file.
